


Anaconda

by Saucery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Jokes, Bad Puns, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Biting, Coitus Interruptus, Comedy, Comedy of Errors, Computers, Courtship, Cousin Incest, Cousins, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crushes, Culture Shock, Dating, Dirty Talk, Divorce, Fatherhood, First Love, Flirting, Fluff and Crack, French Kissing, Funny, Goblins, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied Bottom Draco, Kissing, Lust, M/M, Making Out, Metamorphmagus, Muggle Technology, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Music, Musical References, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious, Older Man/Younger Man, Parenthood, Pizza, Pop Culture, Post-Canon, Requited Love, Ridiculous, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Silly, Slytherin Teddy, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Snogging, Star Trek References, Television, Television Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco visits Teddy’s new digs in Muggle London. The visit goes about as well as one might expect.</p><p>Or, Draco discovers Nicki Minaj and rediscovers snogging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anaconda

* * *

 

Draco picked his way across a corridor that had rubbish bags, damaged children’s toys and piles of hole-ridden Muggle clothing strewn along the sides. The peeling doors had numbers painted onto them in a dreadful dull red, like that of dried blood. Was Teddy living in a coven of Dark witches? Or vampires? 

“Draco!” Teddy beamed, when Draco knocked on the door numbered 73, and it swung inward. Teddy was wearing one of his so-called tea-shirts, which, alarmingly, had a flaming skull and the phrase “Death Metal” printed on it.

“You _have_ gone Dark,” Draco said appalled. He should’ve known that no wizard would willingly live among Muggles; Teddy must be the undercover member of some obscure cult. And it was up to Draco to rescue him from it, before he went down a path like the path Draco had spent his seventh year at school trying to escape.

“What?” Teddy blinked down at his shirt. “Oh. Ha. No. This is, um. Death metal is a genre of Muggle music.”

“Muggles are disturbing creatures.”

“Not creatures, Draco. People.”

“As you say,” Draco conceded grudgingly, edging into the flat, past a shoe-rack that had oddly padded white shoes stacked haphazardly atop it, decorated in colors ranging from lime green to lightning blue.

Teddy himself was sporting yellow-and-violet hair, freckles, and a pierced nostril. There was also a tattoo—a swirling design that resembled an ancient script—curling over his collarbone and disappearing into his shirt. Only his eyes were unchanged, a gold-tinged hazel, like they had been at birth. Lupin’s eyes.

Draco cleared his throat. On the one hand, he ought to be congratulating his dear cousin and pseudo-nephew on achieving financial independence and securing housing, which, given Teddy’s lack of an ancestral home, was an admirable achievement. On the other hand, Draco wanted to summon his broom, fly out of the window and flee this accursed place. As soon as possible. It was a pity that his Apparition license had expired a fortnight ago, and that the Ministry was dragging its feet with renewing it, like it always did with former Death Eaters.

“Your flat is…” Draco trailed off. He considered and discarded descriptor after descriptor, searching for something diplomatic. “It’s interesting.”

Teddy laughed, leaning against a shelf full of books and gleaming plastic squares. Skinny though he was, he was infuriatingly tall—taller than Draco—and he didn’t even have to morph in order to tower above everybody else. “Don’t be tactful, Draco. Say it like it is.”

“How can you _bear_ it?” Draco blurted. “The filth in the alley outside, and within the building itself, and the neighbors that resemble carnivorous Moray eels sticking their heads out of their caves for no reason other than frightening you.”

“Moray eels?” Teddy’s shoulders shook as his laughter intensified. “Oh. Oh, Draco. I have missed you.”

Draco flushed. And shuffled his feet. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly. “Who needs an aging relative poking their nose in at all hours? You were busy with your new job, and I didn’t—I didn’t want to impose.” And Teddy must have lovers, surely. Handsome and charming as he was. It wouldn’t do to interfere with Teddy’s intimate affairs.

“You could never impose,” Teddy said, with abrupt earnestness, his moods as mercurial and changeable as his appearance. “Seriously. Drop by whenever. No invites required. I don’t have a Floo installed, yet, but… Apparate anytime you like. We could have dinner on weekends. The weekends you don’t have Scorpius with you, anyway.”

“Astoria and Justin have him this weekend,” Draco said, uncomfortable with discussing his recent divorce, and with having to share custody of his sole, precious heir. “But perhaps you should come by the mansion, instead.”

“Scared of dining in a roach-infested hovel like mine?”

“No,” Draco said, although the lack of hygiene had occurred to him. Teddy’s flat itself was clean enough, but there must be Nargles—or the Muggle equivalent of Nargles—infesting the beams and crevices of this ill-kept building. “I merely mean to imply that our House-Elves will feed us better than you will.”

“I’m offended,” Teddy said, mock-gravely. “I can feed myself just fine. And you, too, for that matter.”

“When you last cooked for me,” Draco said dryly, “you set Andromeda’s kitchen on fire.”

“I was _nine_.”

“My point exactly. How many years has it been since you attempted to cook, after that? Or since Andromeda allowed you anywhere near flammable substances?”

“I can order in,” Teddy grumbled, and sifted through sheafs of shiny paper pamphlets with logos, numbers and non-animated illustrations of food on them. “What do you think of Italian? Or Chinese?”

“Rigatoni alla Caprese would be nice,” Draco said, sitting gingerly on Teddy’s sagging sofa.

Teddy paused. “Er. How about pizza? Because I sincerely doubt Luigi’s Loony Pizzas offers rigatoni. Or anything that isn’t pizzas.”

“As long as there aren’t any anchovies, go ahead and order whatever you like.”

Teddy eyed him. “Surprisingly un-picky of you.”

“I am out of my depth when it comes to Muggle cuisine, and what may or may not be on offer.”

Teddy continued eyeing him, a secret smile curving his lips. “Oh, there’s a _lot_ on offer.”

What? What did that—

No. Draco was imagining things. Again. He’d taken to imagining things with distressing regularity, wherever Teddy was concerned.

Teddy contacted Luigi’s dubious establishment using the rectangular communication device he habitually kept in the back pocket of his pants, not that Draco was ogling the back pocket of his pants, or how those pants _clung_ , or…

“Draco?”

“Sorry?” Draco’s gaze snapped up to Teddy’s, abashed. Had he been caught?

“Would you like a soft drink? The fizzy type you liked at Grandma’s?”

“The coke?” Draco brightened. “Yes. Yes, please.” It was sweet and fiery, and while Draco didn’t trust himself with alcohol in a grown-up Teddy’s presence, the coke had a flavor vivid enough to distract him from speculating as to the flavor of Teddy’s mouth.

Teddy completed his order, concluding it with a, “Ta, mate,” and sprawled on the sofa next to Draco. Perhaps it was because of how the cushions sagged, but Teddy ended up a lot closer to Draco than Draco had expected.

“How’s—” Draco swallowed. “How’s work?” There. That was a safe topic. A safe, platonic, attentive-older-person-who-you-happen-to-be-related-to topic.

“Amazing.” Teddy grinned. “Can you believe that the goblins have _me_ designing the security system for their bank at King’s Cross? Me? I’ve just turned twenty!”

Draco smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “It is a testament to your skill and talent.”

“More like, I’m the only wizard they could find who understood Muggle _and_ magical security systems,” Teddy said, “but whatever. It’s cool. Like, really cool.”

“I assume you aren’t referring to the temperature of your workplace.”

Teddy snorted. “Nah. The goblins, they like it toasty. Too toasty, almost. I’m mostly stuck underground, working on their vaults. Theodore Nott has been commissioned to give them human bodies. Or human-seeming bodies, so they can deal with Muggle clientele.”

Nott was an award-winning Potions master, and his Polyjuice was legendary. “I’m stunned the goblins would voluntarily take on the form of what they regard as an inferior species, blatant speciesists that they are.”

“They’re arrogant little pricks, sometimes, but when it comes to business? It’s all about the moolah.”

“The what?”

“The money, Draco. They’re like the Ferengi. God, I have to show you Star Trek. You’ll love it.”

“You keep mentioning that. A teller-vision story, you said?”

“Yeah. We could marathon the original series, this Sunday. I have Netflix. What do you say?”

The mansion would be devastatingly empty, without Scorpius puttering about with his toys and his broomsticks and his incessant “Is my Hogwarts letter here, yet?” questions. Teddy’s flat, while terrifying, was _occupied_. And by someone whose company Draco enjoyed, no less. Enjoyed… and desired. “All right.”

“Awesome! So, yeah, the goblins don’t mind looking like humans if it gets them into the Muggle market. Of course, Muggle banking has its own vulnerabilities and counter-measures, and Internet banking is pretty lucrative, these days. The goblins want in on it, which is why they’ve hired me, I guess. I’m making them hack-proof _and_ hex-proof.”

Draco nodded, as if he understood. He’d read up on what Teddy did, and had a vague idea, but the terminology confused him. The quiet buzzing from the spare bedroom of Teddy’s flat indicated that Teddy’s computational devices were in there, the devices Teddy was so fond of, the devices that had tempted him away from respectable lodgings in the Wizarding World and into slumming it with the Muggles. The devices that had tempted him away from _Draco_ , or from proximity to Draco, and Draco tried not to resent them for that. Resenting machines was more pathetic than resenting Muggles.

“As many qualms as I have about your sanity, for choosing to live in Muggle London, I can see that it might benefit your work to be living among the inventors of the very contraptions you utilize in your profession.”

“Wow. Are you saying you _approve_ of my life choices?”

Draco stared determinedly at the teller-vision, which was muted, and was displaying some manner of head-banging, uncoordinated gyrating featuring electric guitars. Thank goodness he couldn’t hear that ruckus; he’d heard enough of it when Teddy was fourteen and concurrently obsessed with music and electricity. “You’re a man, Teddy. You are beyond the approval of others. You—you deserve to be confident of everything that you are. Everything that you’ve become.”

“Mm.” Teddy stretched, his ridiculously lanky limbs taking up more space than was justified, and his fingertips brushed Draco’s shoulder. His eyes were strangely heavy-lidded. “I’m glad you recognize my adultness.”

“Adultness is not a word.”

“It is, now that I’ve made it up.”

Draco huffed. It was so like Teddy, to fabricate rules of his own when society’s rules didn’t suit him. It was no wonder he’d been Sorted into Slytherin; that was just one of the many traits that drew Draco to him, that made Draco feel understood _by_ him, although Teddy’s preoccupation with Muggles was uncommon, for a Slytherin, if not for a Tonks. Then again, even the venerable Merlin had been fascinated by Muggles. There was no accounting for taste.

“Shall I get you a drink, while we wait for the delivery?” Teddy suggested, and his tone was low, cajoling. Unfamiliar. “Firewhiskey, perhaps…?”

Draco startled. Teddy was significantly closer than he had been, just a minute ago. His fingertips had gone from brushing Draco’s shoulder to lightly, casually brushing his neck, just above the collar of his cloak. The cloak that was Draco’s only concession to Muggle fashion. For Teddy’s sake.

“Aren’t you hot, in that cloak?” Teddy’s voice dropped a few registers. “Well, you’re hot in general, but…”

“I.” Draco gaped. “What?” Who was this Lothario, and what had he done with Draco’s once-bashful cousin? Could this mean that Draco _hadn’t_ been imagining things? For the past two years?

Teddy drifted nearer, and Draco sat there, petrified, immobilized as if by a Basilisk. Draco’s pulse began pounding, beating like a war-drum, and his earlier flush returned with a vengeance. He hadn’t kissed anyone but Astoria in—in more than a decade. Let alone a cousin, and cousin-kissing was, despite the inbreeding common to Pureblood families, still a semi-taboo in the wider Wizarding community.

“Teddy,” he whispered, shrinking back as Teddy inched forward. “When did you…?”

“When did I start wanting you? How about, oh, forever?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t kiss someone who’d been dreaming of kissing him since they were a _child_. That was— “Have you kissed someone else? At least?”

“Yes,” Teddy answered, and Draco fought the bitter jealousy that surged within him. “Just to get myself figured out, though. Didn’t do more than kissing.”

Thank heavens. No. Draco shouldn’t be grateful for that.

“Draco,” Teddy said gently, as if he were the experienced partner, the mature partner, and Draco was the youth scarcely out of his teens. “Look at me.”

Draco opened his eyes. And looked.

Looked at Teddy’s beautiful face, changeable as it was, arresting and endlessly captivating, like an ever-changing sky. Looked at Teddy’s mouth, which was a tad fuller than usual, perhaps because Teddy had been biting it, or perhaps because Teddy—consciously or unconsciously—wanted to draw attention to it. Looked at Teddy’s hair, which had darkened to a purple-tinged scarlet, and his eyes, which were molten and glowing, like the eyes of a beast of prey.

It struck Draco, belatedly, that his inconvenient carnal fixation on his younger kinsman wasn’t a simple carnal fixation, at all.

He was in love with Teddy. In love with him so stupidly, so totally, that he had ventured into the wilderness of a Muggle city on his own, had stooped to consuming junk food from a suspicious source, had consented to spending an entire Sunday exposing himself to a teller-vision fairytale about stars, and had read a book titled _Muggle Technology for Dummies_ from cover to cover.

No. No, no, _no_.

Draco was finished with love. Firstly, it was undependable and inevitably doomed—as Astoria’s abandonment of him in favor of a sodding Hufflepuff had proved—and secondly, Teddy couldn’t conceivably love him back. Draco was a crush, at most, the object of an appetite that was urgent only because it had been whetted for so long, but after it was sated, Teddy would lose interest. If Teddy’s very features changed from moment to moment, how could his feelings not?

And Draco was old. Practically forty. A divorcé. A parent. A jaded, lonely, miserable man whose son would rather play Quidditch with Justin Finch-Fletchley than play chess with his own father. A stodgy, conservative, stubborn reactionary who struggled to keep up with a rapidly evolving world, where the goblins were launching a Muggle branch of Gringotts and where Arithmancists used mechanical cipher engines as frequently as they did runes.

He was nothing like Teddy. Nothing like what Teddy would love. Want? Yes, perhaps, for a while, as the young were often intrigued by lust-driven misconceptions of reality. But love?

Teddy did love him as a—as family, but his raging hormones and their eagerness for Draco was a different phenomenon entirely.

“This isn’t wise,” he said unsteadily, as Teddy’s fingers ghosted along his neck and cupped his jaw.

“You’re scaring yourself by thinking too much,” Teddy said, “like you always do.”

“One of us ought to be thinking,” Draco scolded, but it was a feeble pretense at irritation, a pretense that Teddy, being a Slytherin, effortlessly saw through.

Teddy advanced in careful increments, both predatory and patient, as if unwilling to spook Draco. He tilted Draco’s chin up and kissed him softly, so softly that it was like the sheerest susurration of silk, if silk were warm and mobile.

Draco shivered, shocks racing up his spine, and his lips parted despite themselves.

“Yeah,” Teddy murmured, “ _yeah_.”

The kiss grew desperately, shudderingly good. It transformed from a tender hesitancy into into a honey-slick, messy clinging of mouth against mouth, a feverish gliding of tongue against tongue. There was a distinct sensation of vertigo, as if Draco were poised to fall from a great height, his body tense with apprehension and anticipation.

Draco’s breaths were ragged, and he was getting aroused, like a fumbling adolescent. He did fumble, grabbing at Teddy’s shirt and dragging him in, restless and embarrassed and unsatisfied because this was going too _slow_ and simultaneously too fast.

“God, Draco,” Teddy groaned, and pushed him back even further. That was when Draco realized that he was all but horizontal on the couch, with Teddy crouching over him, pinning Draco down with a body that was as wiry as it was skinny, as strong as it was graceful.

Frank terror shot through Draco’s nerves. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be letting this happen. He was—this was—

“Stop. Thinking,” Teddy growled, and sank his teeth into the lobe of Draco’s ear.

Draco jolted.

Clever snakeling. Teddy had the unerring instincts of a viper, because Draco’s ears were especially vulnerable to exploitation of the erotic variety, but he had to—he had to _focus_ , damn it, had to be responsible, had to resist—

“Ah,” he said, banging his skull against the inadequately upholstered arm of the sofa, his back arching when Teddy’s teeth—were they sharpening?—scraped his Adam’s apple again and again, igniting lines of fire that lit Draco like a match, leaving him panting.

“You like a hint of pain,” Teddy said hoarsely. “Don’t you? I knew you would.” His confession was damp against Draco’s skin. Obscene. It inspired visions of Teddy touching himself to what he fantasized were Draco’s preferences. Of Teddy making himself into someone that would fit Draco’s preferences. “Picture what I could do to you,” Teddy rasped. “What I could do _for_ you. What I could become, the shapes I could take. I could bind your wrists with my hands. I could eat you out for ages, fuck, just hold you open and make my tongue go so _deep_ —”

“I don’t—” Draco was suddenly, blindingly hard, because the cousin he had thought innocent was actually a devil in disguise. “Teddy. I can’t…”

“You can. You can, and you will. I’ve seen you watching me. I’ve seen—”

A deafening ring split the air, and Teddy jumped, his hungry composure dissolving into an uncoordinated flailing that resulted in him tumbling off the sofa and landing face-down on the mangy carpet.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Teddy hissed, into the coarse brown fibers. “I should’ve ordered from Porchetta. It’s farther away.”

Draco took the opportunity to get up, arranging his cloak over his humiliatingly obvious erection and attempting to restore some dignity to his mien. He wasn’t certain he succeeded, because heat still suffused his cheeks in a palpable blush, and his nether regions were still in the midst of staging a mutiny. He refused to dwell on whether Teddy was similarly afflicted.

Teddy rose awkwardly from the carpet, dusted off his knees, and mumbled apologetically at Draco before stalking to the door, his hair an angry, burnt orange that was black at the roots, as if charred.

A tiny girl in a gaudy yellow uniform stood outside, balancing a bottle of coke and a pair of flat boxes from which the appetizing scents of meat and grease emanated. “Hello!” she chirped. “Delivery from Luigi’s!”

“I’ll deliver Luigi to hell,” Teddy muttered, and whipped out a wad of Muggle currency that he shoved into the girl’s outstretched palm before taking the boxes and the bottle from her and slamming the door shut on her nose.

“That was ungracious,” Draco commented, as if he hadn’t just had Teddy’s tongue down his gullet.

“Ungracious?” Teddy said incredulously. “I must’ve tipped her thirty quid.”

“That’s a lot, is it?”

“Yeah,” said Teddy, slumping. “It’s a lot. I just. I figured it’d get rid of her. I dunno. I wasn’t very rational.” He placed the pizzas and the coke on the coffee table. “Crikey, that tip was too big.”

“You get paid decently, don’t you? Or indecently, given that the goblins pay in gold bullion?”

“I’m saving up for a house.” Teddy shrugged bashfully. “Like, a proper house. For Grandma, and—and for you. If you ever. Plan on. That is, if—I know you have the mansion, but it’s so _huge_ you must go barmy in there, with only the House Elves for company.”

It was too close to the truth. “I’m starving,” Draco lied. “Let us dine.”

Teddy studied Draco narrowly. Then he sighed, his uncharacteristic frustration melting away, replaced by an indulgent, affectionate smile. “Okay, okay. I get it. No proposals on the first date.”

“The first—the first _what_?”

“Budge over,” Teddy said, and nestled beside Draco, their sides pressed together companionably. Draco remembered Teddy as a toddler, pressing against him just like this, and mumbling about bedtime stories in spite of being half-asleep.

It was disconcerting, that the bloke he’d just been snogging had, at the tender age of three, pleaded for Draco to tell him about the exploits of Blimpy the Dragon and Blimpy’s Metamorphmagus companion.

“We’ve got a Mexicana and a Hawaiian,” Teddy said, cheerfully oblivious, flipping the boxes’ lids and revealing two cheesy discs of dough garnished with unexpectedly fragrant toppings. “You hate pineapples on pizzas, so the Mexicana’s for you. As for me, I adore pineapples, so the Hawaiian’s for me.”

“You do tend to adore the aberrant and the peculiar.”

Teddy winked at him. “What does that say about you?”

_You don’t adore me_ , Draco didn’t argue. _You just think you do. You’re twenty. You think with your prick._

Brilliant. Now Draco was speculating about the length and girth of Teddy’s prick. He choked on a mouthful of mozzarella-encrusted salami, downing it with a gulp of coke from one of the glasses Teddy had conjured. Draco’s oily grip slipped on the cool glass, and he set it down quickly.

“Relax,” Teddy said. “I won’t seduce you again. Not tonight, at any rate. I’ve waited for what feels like centuries. I can wait until the second date.”

“These aren’t dates.”

“Aren’t they?” Teddy wasn’t fazed by Draco’s crabbiness. The insufferable prat. But then, he’d reduced Draco to an over-sensitized puddle, hadn’t he? He could afford to be smug. “They will be, when I’m done with them.” Teddy smirked, cunning and infuriating and maddeningly lovely. “When I’m done with _you_.”

That was what Draco was afraid of. That Teddy would be done with him. Eventually.

To supplant their conversation with meaningless noise, Draco floundered for the button-laden “remote” that presumably unmuted the teller-vision.

“Here, let me,” Teddy said, taking the remote from him. “It’s great, how you’re curious about what’s on the telly. A step in the right direction. You’ll be glued to it when I get you hooked on Star Trek.”

That… sounded like a dangerous addiction. Although, admittedly, Teddy was the most dangerous addiction of all.

When Teddy unmuted the teller-vision, the room was immediately swamped by a deluge of rhythmic beats and lyrics that, inexplicably, said: “My anaconda don’t. My anaconda don’t. My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.”

Teddy burst into sniggers at Draco’s expression.

Draco frowned, perplexed. There was a woman dancing on the screen, evidently an Amazonian warrior-goddess, for she had a following of equally intimidating, statuesque women who were moving in synchronicity, as if under the command of an Imperius.

“Is she a Muggle version of Voldemort?” Draco ventured, at last. “If she has tamed an anaconda of Nagini’s proportions, she must be quite powerfu—Teddy,” he broke off worriedly, “are you having an allergic reaction?”

Teddy had abandoned his pizza and was wheezing uncontrollably. “No,” he gasped. “No, I’m—”

“But why are baked goods involved?” Draco asked plaintively, as the woman performed acts of violence against bananas. “Does the serpent demand a sacrifice of buns prior to cooperating with its mistress? If so, she is not as impressive as she claims, nor is her mastery of the anaconda as absolute as she asserts.”

“It’s…” Teddy muted the teller-vision again, ostensibly to be heard. He wiped tears of what appeared to be mirth on his sleeves. “It’s about arses, Draco.”

“Arses?” What on earth?

“The anaconda is, um. It’s a phallic symbol.”

“No,” said Draco, horrified. Were teller-visions psychic in nature? Were they Muggle Foe-Glasses, revealing the hidden intentions of those they encountered?

“Uh, yeah. It is. And the buns are the, um. The arses. The song’s about arses and about how, er, essential they are. To the singer’s titillation.”

“An understandable sentiment,” Draco said weakly. He flashed to the mental image of Teddy’s arse, in those tight Muggle pants, and wondered when his brain had committed the image so faithfully to memory. “Is all Muggle music so… vulgar?”

“It can get sorta raunchy, yeah. Do you like it?”

“I suppose so,” Draco said cautiously. The teller-vision had begun another ditty, starring an army of nuns wielding elongated Muggle weapons. Was this yet more phallic symbolism? Were all Muggles so phallically inclined, and if so, why?

Not that Draco could blame them. His present condition was more literally than metaphorically phallic.

“Uncle Harry’s majorly into this stuff,” Teddy said off-handedly, as Draco bristled at Potter’s name. “It’s hilarious. He keeps embarrassing James by misquoting rude songs in front of James’s friends. It’s like, he tries to be hip, so badly, but oh, man. He sucks at it.”

“Kindly do not speak to me of what Potter does and does not suck, thank you very much,” Draco said primly. “And ‘Uncle Harry’? So he gets the honorary term, does he? The title and the respect? And I’m just ‘Draco’?”

Teddy fidgeted, his hair turning pink. “You’re too sexy to be an uncle. I was just a brat when I noticed how sexy you were. Wasn’t right, calling you ‘Uncle’ after that.” He coughed. “Anyhow, technically, you’re my cousin.”

“Hmph,” said Draco, somewhat mollified. And disgusted by the fact that he could be so easily mollified. By his cousin’s sexual attraction to him, at that. “Put the sound back on,” he said, because a Korean gentleman in a suit was behaving in an exceedingly ungentlemanly manner. It was amusing.

“Your wish is my command,” Teddy replied, with apparent sincerity, even though it must be plain to him that it was Draco who was at his mercy.

So Draco ignored him, chose the stringiest, cheesiest slice of pizza from his box, and settled in to watch yet more songs that made no sense to him, but were entertaining, nonetheless.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> The music videos referenced in this story were: [Anaconda](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDZX4ooRsWs) by Nicki Minaj, [Alejandro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niqrrmev4mA) by Lady Gaga and [Gentleman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASO_zypdnsQ) by Psy.
> 
> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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